“Your terms are quite satisfactory, Miss Devon, and if my brother approves, I think we will consider the matter settled. Perhaps you would like to see the children? They are little darlings, and you will soon be fond of them, I am sure.”
A bell was rung, an order given, and presently appeared an eight-year old boy, so excessively Scotch in his costume that he looked like an animated checkerboard; and a little girl, who presented the appearance of a miniature opera-dancer staggering under the weight of an immense sash.
“Go and speak prettily to Miss Devon, my pets, for she is coming to play with you, and you must mind what she says,” commanded mamma.
The pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to Christie’s knee, and stood there staring at her with a dull composure that quite daunted her, it was so sadly unchildlike.
“What is your name, dear?” she asked, laying her hand on the young lady’s head.
“Villamena Temmatina Taltentall. You mustn’t touch my hair; it’s just turled,” was the somewhat embarrassing reply.
“Mine’s Louy ’Poleon Thaltensthall, like papa’s,” volunteered the other young person, and Christie privately wondered if the possession of names nearly as long as themselves was not a burden to the poor dears.
Feeling that she must say something, she asked, in her most persuasive tone:
“Would you like to have me come and teach you some nice lessons out of your little books?”
If she had proposed corporal punishment on the spot it could not have caused greater dismay. Wilhelmina cast herself upon the floor passionately, declaring that she “touldn’t tuddy,” and Saltonstall, Jr., retreated precipitately to the door, and from that refuge defied the whole race of governesses and “nasty lessons” jointly.